


Keep Your Stick on the Ice

by allochthonous (cynicalshoes)



Category: Primeval
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Gen, Hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:02:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynicalshoes/pseuds/allochthonous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The-ARC-is-actually-an-ice-hockey-team AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Stick on the Ice

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has its own backstory. [With ~feelings and stuff.](http://cynicalshoes.livejournal.com/69009.html)

Connor shuffled his feet while the anthems wailed on, vying to keep his focus internalized despite the noise and wild emotions of the arena. He bowed his head, looked down at his skates, and tried to keep his muscles loose. Even after all these years, stepping out onto the ice still gave him an adrenaline rush. Whether it was to his parents clapping in the bleachers or to the pounding music and spotlights of the major league, that first step was like the transition between sleep and consciousness. Cutting into clean ice, the first ritual curve, leaning into it so far he could reach out and touch the surface; it never failed to make Connor’s heart soar, make him feel as light as air. The trick was to grab onto that feeling and hold it tight, bottle it up to be released when the moment came. There was always a wait, the unbearable minutes between plain old life and _the game_.

The anthem singer tonight was a twelve-year-old girl, wearing the smallest-size jersey with her name on the back, but she could belt it out like Whitney Houston and had the crowd’s attention wound tight. She finished with a long, wavering note, a bit too embellished for Connor’s taste but that was the norm these days. She waved and smiled and bowed with childish glee, and as soon as she turned back to the stands the ice crew began to roll back the carpet and wind up the mic. The twelve players on the ice quickly broke from their respectful positions and readied their gear, keeping to their own side of the centreline by wordless, ancient agreement.

With his stick in one hand and helmet in the other, Connor felt like a warrior off to battle, just waiting now for the first ceremonial crossing of swords.

Connor glided past the bench, avoiding a glob of spit from Danny, whose wide grin framed his missing teeth. Further down the bench, Becker looked deep in concentration, brows furrowed behind his visor. Probably reciting his pre-game mantra.

Lester had his arms crossed, clutching the roster tightly in his hand and listening with one ear to his assistant coach's updates, nodding occasionally. Jenny was always on top of last-minute changes and, as usual, seemed to have some bit of information on the opposing team's strategy to share.

An unflappable Sarah was checking her gloves and reassuring a stone-faced rookie (whose teeth would have been chattering if not for the mouthguard,) that between ducking and taking the hit, all that really mattered was if you got up again. Ryan leaned casually against the boards beside them, and with a loving hand smoothed down the tape on his stick, a self-assured smile on his face like a soldier with his favourite weapon. He had a wicked slap shot that was known to break sticks, and, on more than one occasion, the shin bones of any unlucky defenseman who tried to block it.

Suddenly Stephen flew past Connor with a laugh and a shout, smacking his stick against Connor's skates in his good-luck greeting. Connor curved back towards their goal, where Abby was marking up her crease. She stretched and bounced on her skates to keep loose, and with her mask up Connor could see her shoot him a smile as he passed. Abby might be small, but she more than made up for it with her quick reflexes and flexibility, her glove or blocker or stick always where it needed to be. The announcers always had some new alliterative name for her, which the team teased her with to no end.

As he swooped around past the bench again, Connor saw Emily's sharp eyes evaluating the other team's starting lineup. Emily had a way of reading the players on the ice, and if SportsCenter ever did a ‘Top 10 End-to-Ends’ Connor was pretty sure she’d make the list more than once. Danny was already chirping across to the other bench, getting creative with his hand gestures. Danny was very proactive when it came to language barriers.

The pre-game pieces came together: Lorraine, the equipment manager, was deftly repairing the catch on a fourth-liner's helmet; the back-up goalie huddled under his baseball cap; the farm-team call-up was muttering to himself and both bottom-pair defensemen marveled at their release from the press box. The crowd was still cheering and calling, their excitement building; the fervour present in the air like a tangible, heady thing, and Connor breathed it in.

The ref and two linesmen finally waved for the faceoff, and Connor took up his position on the right wing. Stephen swooped around him one last time, coming to a stop in his ready position, the clandestine figure skating lessons he'd had as a kid betraying themselves. Ryan, Stephen's D-partner, rolled his shoulders. He had a look on his face that promised a highlight reel hip check was in his gameplan.

Their captain readied himself at centre, Matt's face steel as he looked into the eyes of the opposing centreman. On the opposite wing, Jess was ready to rocket ahead to receive the puck from a won faceoff.

The referee raised his arm, and Connor took one last quick glance up to the rafters, where Cutter’s retired number 15 proudly hung, and remembered Nick’s words of advice.

And then he was in the moment, eyes intent, body coiled; for a fraction of a second at one with the crowd and his teammates and even the opposing players, and every breath in the entire building caught as the puck fell to the ice.


End file.
